The Seven Year Itch
by VyvyanBasterd
Summary: AU. Set in 1950's America. Brittany is Marilyn Monroe. Santana Lopez, a journalist, falls in love with her. But will Brittany's fame be the demise of their relationship? Told from Santana's POV. Inspired by the life of Marilyn Monroe
1. Chapter 1

**August 7th, 1962**

**1:54am**

Brittany Pierce. Everyone knows her name. She's a star, a gorgeous glow on the face of the earth. She's beauty. She's grace. She's a beacon of light.

And she's gone.

I knew her so well. God, she was everything. She was my entire life, my present and my future.

I loved her so much.

No, I am not Joe DiMaggio or Arthur Miller. I am not even James Doughtery. I am just a person, sitting in this dark, dank room typing on this rusty typewriter, recounting my memories of her.

Three days ago, I saw her for the last time. August 4th, 9:17pm. The memory will live in my head forever.

My name is Santana Lopez and this is my seven year itch.


	2. Chapter 2

**June 1, 1955**

My palms were clammy as I frantically powdered my face, taking deep breaths and desperately to calm down.  
"Okay." I uttered to my reflection in the mirror, "Calm down. Its just Brittany Pierce. You've got nothing to worry about."

Just Brittany Pierce? Who was I kidding? She took my breath away and I hadn't even met her yet.

I am gonna kill Clive, I thought, peering at my face in the mirror. I looked like I was gonna throw up. Jesus, my first real interview and he gets it with Brittany Pierce. As if I wasn't under enough pressure already.

Its so difficult to be taken seriously as a female journalist. I sighed, putting my powder back into my bag. My boss, Mr Michaels, was apprehensive about hiring me at first. On my first day he sat me in his office and condescendingly told me that first and foremost he wouldn't accept any physical relations with any of the other employees. What a sexist prick, I had thought at the time, assuming that because I'm a woman I'm out to bed every male I meet. Boy, it came as a shock to him when I calmly explained that I was gay. He sucked on his cigar and sternly told me that he hoped I was joking. His tone of voice scared me and I shakily said that I was just kidding. I'm not one to give into homophobic discrimination, but I was aware that if I outed myself I would get fired. The 50's is a bad time to be gay.

He snubbed his cigar out fiercely into the ashtray on his desk. He barked that it wasn't a very good joke and I shouldn't repeat it. I just stuttered a shaky yes sir and quickly left his office, scared out of my mind.

Three weeks on and here I am, staring at my reflection in the grand bathroom of the Knickerbocker Hotel in LA, four minutes away from meeting Brittany Pierce. Me, Santana Lopez, from Lima, Ohio! Meeting Brittany Pierce!

There was a knock on the door. Clive, my agent, shouted from the opposite side of the door. "Come on, dollface, whenever you're ready. You're not famous enough yet to keep someone like Brittany Pierce waiting." I rolled my eyes. Clive had been my agent for two years now. He was a short, stubby man with thick, dark eyebrows and a bald patch which he covered with a chocolate brown bowler hat to match his suit. He was the sort of man who had never moved on from the 30's - when he was in his prime. He was about 40 odd now. Me, I was born February 16th, 1926. I was only a child in the 30's. I barely remember it.

Glancing in the mirror one last time, I pulled the door open. "How do I look?" I said nervously. Clive looked me up and down, half-smiling. I was wearing an olive green pinstripe trouser suit and a white ruffled shirt with a pearl necklace my mother gave me and an olive fur hat to match my suit with peacock feathers brandishing the side. I teetered on my black Cuban heel style shoes and rubbed my lips together one last time in an effort to ensure that my cherry coloured lipstick was spread evenly. My hair was curled and I was wearing perfume. I'd tried so hard.

Clive's face broke into a smile as she looked me in the face and beamed proudly, "Smashing, you look bloody smashing." It was a phrase he'd picked up in London when we went travelling the year before. He's adopted it since then, even though it just sounded strange in his Jersey accent. I rolled my eyes but couldn't help smiling as he held out his arm and led me up a flight of stairs and down a corridor to Room 204.

"Now," Clive whispered. God, he looked as nervous as I did. "Remember to be gracious. Don't make her feel uncomfortable. And definitely don't pressure her to answer any questions she doesn't want to answer. Have you got your notepad?" I nodded, not wanting to open my mouth for fear of vomiting. "Good," Clive continued, "and remember. No ogling at her physique, Miss Lopez." He smiled broadly. I'd known Clive two years and it was difficult to conceal my sexuality from him. Plus he claims to have known I was a lesbian from the minute I stepped in his office. Apparently I just gave off a vibe that let everyone know I wasn't for the men. I was for the women.

Clive squeezed my hand before knocking briskly on the door. A maid opened the door and gestured for me to come inside. I bowed my head slightly and stepped into the room.

There she was, sitting demurely in a red velvet armchair wearing a gold silk dress. Her make up was immaculate, her smooth blonde hair was curled and styled. She looked up and our eyes met as she smiled broadly, her face lighting up as she stood to greet me.

It was that moment that I fell in love with her.


End file.
